


Section 31:  Origins

by Penny_P



Category: Star Trek
Genre: Section 31
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-19
Updated: 2019-07-19
Packaged: 2020-07-08 17:15:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19873186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Penny_P/pseuds/Penny_P
Summary: It's hard to remember now, but Section 31 was first introduced during the run of Deep Space Nine.  At the time I wrote this, it was still a shadow department, clothed in mystery.  Subsequent Star Trek franchises have provided more background so that this story probably has no connection to present-day canon.  Still, it was my attempt to show how the section began. The characters are all original, although one or two may have descendants/family members you recognize.





	1. The Good of the Many

[Earth Year 2161: Federation Day: Starfleet Headquarters, San Francisco]

Outside, the jubilation continued unabated. Citizens of Earth, Vulcan, Andoria, Tellar, Denobula, Rigel and Coridan celebrated in the streets, albeit in various forms of expression. The United Federation of Planets had just that day been created, its charter signed by the founding worlds whose coalition during the Romulan War had worked so well they chose to expand its scope. Deep space exploration, mutual defense, shared scientific advancements now were all possible with pledged cooperation and shared vision.

The office was dark, providing vivid contrast for the fireworks that blazed across the sky in exaltation. Shadows moved within, one standing and one sitting. The one who stood walked close enough to the window to be bathed in green light from a series of chrysanthemum bursts. "They're right to celebrate," he said. His human features took an odd cast, as if he were ill. He was tall and slender, and in the diffused light would have looked younger than his forty-seven years if not for the way his hair was thinning. "I wasn't sure this day would ever come. We had so many differences to reconcile."

"Indeed. We may speak of infinite diversity in infinite combination, but the truth is we are at ease only with the diversity we recognize. Still, it is a noble endeavor." She remained in the shadows, tall and thin, with just a trace of irony in her voice.

"Noble." He stared out, watching a palm tree of golden light grow upwards. "Too noble. It won't work."

"No. The probability is high that it won't."

"Sevok and Bergstrom are genuinely good men. They have no conception of evil." He could picture them both, the charismatic Vulcan who would serve as the first President of the United Federation of Planets and Pers Bergstom, the veteran of the United Earth Expeditionary Force who was President-Elect, next in line. In his experience, good men were rarely capable of achieving greatness, but surely these two were the exception that proved the rule.

"True. Nor do they comprehend that at times evil can be defeated only by its own methods."

The man raised a glass to his lips and tossed back its contents, then moved away from the window to a cabinet hidden in the wall. With one touch, a panel slid back and revealed a fully stocked wet bar. He picked up a decanter and refilled his glass. "Are you sure you don't want anything, T'Leya? This is twelve-year-old single malt. One of Earth's great contributions to the galaxy, along with Shakespeare and jazz."

"Water will suffice."

He shrugged. "Your loss." After a quick sip he said almost angrily, "They've made me head of Intelligence and tied my hands. No covert operations, nothing that would embarrass the new Council. Everything out in the open."

"It will be difficult."

"Difficult? Try impossible." He shook his head. "Don't get me wrong, I support the ideals of the Federation, just like I supported the constitution of United Earth. But ideals are just that, ideals. Something we strive for. It's not possible to live them completely, not until everyone in the whole goddam universe agrees to play by the same rules."

"That does not seem imminent."

He didn't seem to hear her. "I understand Sevok, but what in the hell was Bergstrom thinking? Has he forgotten our own history? Does he think that the Eugenics Wars ended because Kahn Noonian Singh got bored? Or that Colonel Green really choked on a fishbone?"

"He thinks, as does Sevok, that the example they set will be sufficient to persuade others of the moral correctness of their position." Still sitting, T'Leya indulged her emotions enough to shake her head. "Sevok has always been blind to this aspect of nature. He sees the universe, oh, what is your idiom? Through rose-colored glasses?"

"Yeah. You're his sister, I guess you'd know."

"Unlike him, I have always been keenly aware of dangers inherent in evil. That is one of the things I like most about you humans. Somehow you manage to recognize evil without necessarily succumbing to it. You have no idea how rare that is." She stood, little more than a slim silhouette. "That is why I have come to you tonight, Desmond. I have a proposition to discuss."

"Oh?"

"In this new Starfleet they have proposed, you will be in charge of Intelligence."

He held himself still, not betraying his surprise. The appointment hadn't been made public yet; not two other people knew about it other than himself, and Sevok was not one of them. "Yes, I was told this afternoon."

"Intelligence is vital to the protection of our Federation. We will have many enemies at first, some from without, but at first our greatest opposition will come from within. You will have the network and the infrastructure to identify those threats."

"Yes," he said cautiously.

"And some of those threats will be within the bounds of lawful conduct or beyond the jurisdiction of the Federation."

"Such as Wilkie Rogers." He could not keep the bitterness out of his voice.

"An excellent example. As long as the new Federation Council supports a free press, Mr. Rogers is well within the law to issue his vitriolic criticism."

She walked closer to the window, and the light finally gave her features clarity: delicate bones, elegant ears, and a mouth firm with determination. He thought she was the most beautiful woman he had ever known. "However, you and I both recognize the danger he poses. He is, at this moment, a greater threat to the existence of the Federation than the Romulans and their allies. He is a chancre that will eat away the foundation we need to establish."

"Do you think I don't know that? He'd be laughable if he didn't make himself sound so reasonable." He walked over to his desk and picked up a stack of padds. "He's got influence, he's got support and he's got the forum to get his subversive ideas into the mainstream. And he knows how to play the game. He will push as far as he can, but he will never actually break the law."

"And if left untouched, he will foment dissent and distrust among the Federation worlds." She turned just as the sky turned crimson behind her. "It would be better for us all, Desmond, if he were eliminated."

Silence hung between them for a long time, long enough for the sky to darken to burgundy and then black again. Finally he said, "I thought Vulcans abhorred violence."

"We do. That does not mean we cannot recognize its uses."

"What you're suggesting is, ah, surprising."

The sky was suddenly bright again, this time lit with lasers of white and gold that created the sudden illusion of a halo around T'Leya's head. He could see something like amusement in her eyes. "Don't tell me you haven't considered it yourself."

"Perhaps I have," he admitted, "but it isn't possible. The Admiralty would never approve the use of Starfleet resources for this activity."

"Murder. Let us be honest about our intentions. We are discussing the murder of an individual who poses a significant threat to the security of our fledgling alliance."

"All right. Admiral Powell sure as hell isn't going to authorize the use of Starfleet resources for a murder. If it became public, it would undermine everything we stand for."

T'Leya folded her arms together and smiled. It was almost imperceptible, but he was certain he saw it. "Then your objections are based on the consequences of getting caught, not on the act itself."

"I've conducted covert operations before," he said. His voice sounded harsh, even grating. "I don't like them. But they are necessary."

"Agreed. The resolution of your dilemma, then, is to be certain that there are no consequences."

He poured himself another drink. "I'm getting the feeling you have something specific in mind."

She came over to the bar and stood directly in front of him. "Section 31 of our new Starfleet Charter empowers Starfleet to 'protect the Federation from its enemies, within and without.' I believe there is a way to do that without appearing to compromise the values of the Charter."

"And that is?"

"A small and secret group of officers who believe in the Federation's ideals enough to sacrifice their own. These officers would be directed by someone with access to enough data to see the big picture, isn't that how you say it? They would exist in such secrecy that not even they know who else serves in the same capacity."

"A secret police," he said bluntly.

"An elite force," she corrected. "You would have to recruit very carefully for this job, Desmond. I've no doubt you can easily find trained killers. We need more than that. We need people who would never dream of the kind of deception and violence that will be required of them, but for the threat to the Federation. Indiscriminate killers cannot be trusted. This group must be wholly dedicated to our cause. They must believe in the ideals of the Federation so passionately that they are willing to sacrifice anything, even their souls, to save them."

He took a large gulp of scotch. A hundred objections presented themselves in his mind and screamed for attention. All he said was, "Powell won't sanction it. Neither will Bergstrom or Sevok if they find out."

"There is no need for them to know," she said serenely.

"Powell is Chief of Operations. Sevok is the President of the High Council and Bergstrom is President-Elect. I have a feeling they would disagree with you."

"It is for their own protection. This force must be clandestine, or you are correct, the mere fact of its existence will undermine the Federation. It is enough if one admiral knows, and can direct resources accordingly." She glanced at the bar. "I believe I will try a glass of that scotch now."

He poured a generous fingerful into a glass and handed it to her. "I'll say this, T'Leya, you've got brass ones."

Her eyebrow shot upwards. "I do not understand the metaphor. I will assume it was a compliment."

"Yeah. Here's to you." He clinked his glass against hers.

"No. Let us drink to the Federation." She sipped slowly but betrayed no reaction to the taste of the liquor. "My brother is a man of great vision, Desmond, as is your Pers Bergstrom. Men with a great vision of the future often look beyond the realities of the present. They - and their vision - must be protected."

"The dichotomy doesn't bother you?" he asked curiously. "That to protect that vision, we must violate it?"

"The good of the many outweighs of the good of the few or the one. What we few do is for the greater good."

He glanced outside. The fireworks had ended. "Come on, we need to get to the reception. They'll notice if we arrive late."

"Yes. We will talk more of this later."

They left his office and headed for the elevator. A rating from Security in full dress uniform pulled himself to attention as they approached. "Admiral Paris, Ambassador T'Leya."

"At ease, Crewman." Des slipped is identicard into the security reader. "Did you see the fireworks?"

"Yes, sir." He glanced toward a window to his right.

"Quite a show, wasn't it?"

"Yes, sir. It's a great day, sir."

"Indeed." Des looked closely at the young man and realized that he was very young, certainly not yet twenty-five. "Celebrate tonight, son. Tomorrow we start protecting the future."

The young man smiled. "I like the sound of that, sir."

The elevator doors opened, and Des gestured T'Leya to enter first. He turned back to the crewman. "As well you should. Isn't that why Starfleet exists?"


	2. The Good of the Few

[Earth Year 2218: Starfleet Headquarters, San Francisco, Office of Starfleet Chief of Intelligence]

"You're drunk."

Admiral Nigel Forsythe, head of Starfleet Intelligence, looked up at T'Leya of Vulcan and smiled serenely. His clipped Eton tones were not slurred in the slightest as he spoke. "Madam Ambassador, I am not. However, I fully intend to rectify that situation."

To prove his point, he downed the contents of his glass and left his desk in the general direction of the hidden wet bar. He brushed against a chair and stumbled slightly but managed not to fall. Lifting a crystal decanter, he examined the amber liquid it held. "Where are my manners? Would you care for a glass, Madam Ambassador?"

"No, and you should not have any more. Even under these circumstances, Admiral, people will question why you are indulging. I have never seen you drink before."

"These circumstances." He laughed harshly and filled his glass. "What a pleasant euphemism. Our colony on Varna has been destroyed by the Klingons. Two of our best ships are limping home with their proverbial tails between their legs and two others have been blown to bits. Over five hundred thousand people are dead and one of them, one of them is my son. I think people will understand if I get stinking dead drunk."

T'Leya inclined her head. "I heard that your son was on the Onizuka. I grieve with thee."

Forsythe stared at her. "Spare me the empty platitudes."

"My sorrow is genuine."

He laughed again. "Vulcan sorrow. Kill them, then apologize for it."

"We did not kill them, Nigel. The Klingons did." She crossed the room and took the drink from his hand. "This will not help anyone and could do a great deal of harm."

When she stood this close, he was reminded uncomfortably of how tall she was. He was of less than average height to start with, but she towered a good ten centimeters above him, forcing him to look up at her. With a sudden cool shock, he realized she was trying to intimidate him. It wasn't necessary - he had always been intimidated by her; she was cold and powerful and made no attempt to conceal either. It was said that the legendary Desmond Paris had been the only human she ever warmed to, but Nigel found it hard to believe. She wasn't the kind to be warm. She was Olympian, and for the first time he realized that she deliberately nurtured that impression.

"You haven't changed," he said abruptly. "You look just the same as always. Just the way you want us to see you. Wise as Athena, and as untouchable as Artemis. Except we weren't so wise this time, were we? We should have told them. We should have warned them."

"We have been through this before. If we had shared the information we obtained about the Klingons, we would have had to explain how we came by it and that would reveal our existence. We could not permit that to happen."

"So we sacrifice a colony and two ships instead. Siobhan Paris was on the Armstrong, did you know that? Just transferred there as CMO last month. It was a promotion for her."

"Yes, I know."

His eyes narrowed as he studied her reaction, and he thought he had scored a hit but couldn't be certain. He could never be certain with T'Leya. "Des must be spinning in his grave, knowing that we let his granddaughter walk into a deathtrap."

"Admiral Paris would have been the first to recognize the necessity, and I am surprised that you do not. There is an example from your own history. Coventry, I believe."

"Wha-what?"

"During your second world war, the Allies obtained information in advance of a planned attack on one of their cities. Coventry, it was called. However, if they had taken any steps to prevent the attack or protect the city, the enemy would have realized that the Allies had deciphered its codes. It was a choice: maintain the strategic advantage of the broken codes or sacrifice the city."

"Oh, god." He suddenly felt ill, and sat down gracelessly. "You can't compare this to Coventry."

"Of course I can. Our operatives spent months gathering data about the current status of the Empire. They have been recovering from the devastation of the epidemic for over a decade, and they are elevating their warrior caste again. You know as well as I do what would have happened if we had turned the information over to Starfleet."

"They'd have been prepared."

"Improbable. Given the current leadership of the Federation Council, they would have attempted to make diplomatic contact. The Klingons would have used the opportunity to assess our capabilities. If they reacted as they did with the Korvallans, they would have prolonged that opportunity to gather their own intelligence before striking." She gave him a long, cold look. "The attack might have been deferred but nothing more. And if deferred, it would have been far more aggressive and far more damaging because they would have obtained vital strategic information about us."

"You can't know that."

"It is a predictable outcome based on the data."

"The data. We captured a Klingon officer from Korvallis, T'Leya. We used extra-legal methods -no, no sugar-coating- we tortured him and drugged him to extract information and then we killed him. And then -" his voice broke into a single sob. Perhaps he was drunk after all. "And then we didn't tell anyone and my son is dead."

She said nothing, and the only sound in the room was his wretched breathing as he struggled to regain control of himself. Then she went back to the wet bar, picked up the decanter and filled a new glass. Without a word she handed it to him.

He took it gratefully and finished half of it in one gulp. "We can't go on, T'Leya. We've stretched Section 31 farther than anyone ever intended. It's time to stop."

"I disagree."

"That's too bloody bad!" Infuriated, he jumped to his feet. "We don't have the right to play God. Who are we to decide who lives and who dies? Who are you?"

A second, then another passed before she answered. "I am the one who protects the Federation from its enemies. The burden is mine, as it always has been."

He started to answer, but suddenly it felt as if his head were going to explode. A pain as sharp as a knife stab seared from behind his left eye all the way to the back of his skull. The vision in his left eye blurred, then turned to a gray shimmer. "God. Something's wrong - something -"

His hands flew to his head and pressed, as if to hold his skull together. "Help, help me – “

He twisted his head so his right eye could see her. She was standing still, her serene expression unchanged. "You," he gasped. "You did this-"

Then his head truly did explode, a shower of white light and searing pain, and then there was nothing.

T'Leya regarded the body on the floor for almost ten seconds before she bent to pick up the glass that had tumbled to the floor. With no sense of urgency, she slipped the glass into a deep pocket of her robe and went to the wet bar. She picked up Nigel's first glass and placed it on the floor where the other had fallen.

Only then did she go to the desk and open the comm system. "Lt. Decker. Please come in immediately."

She stepped aside as Forsythe's aide came into the room. When he saw the Admiral lying on the floor, he ran and knelt beside the body. He checked the pulse, then looked up. "He's dead."

T'Leya nodded. "I suspect he suffered a vascular event in his brain. We were talking and he suddenly complained of extreme pain in his head, then he collapsed."

"Oh my god," Decker said. He was breathing hard and almost hyperventilating. "What do I do?"

"Call the Medical Department. I believe Dr. Jennings is on duty this evening; I spoke with him earlier. He will take charge of the situation."

"Yes, yes of course. Thank you, ma'am." Hands shaking, Decker accessed the comm system on the Admiral's desk and reached Jennings in Medical. "Can you come right away, sir? I think Admiral Forsythe is dead."

"He was deeply grieved by the death of his son and the attack on Varna by the Klingon Empire," T'Leya offered. "He seemed to blame himself. He was very emotional."

Over the comm link, Jennings swore. "Damnfool. He always took things too hard. I'm on my way."

Decker was now shaking visibly. "I can't believe it. I've only been on the job three days, and this happens. I can't believe it."

"Yes. It is most unfortunate. The Federation has lost a loyal servant." She glanced at a chronometer. "Lieutenant, I realize the timing is inopportune, but I must return to the Vulcan Embassy. My sister's son is arriving tonight to assume diplomatic duties and I must be there to greet him. You may reach me there if I am needed. Tell them I am with Sarek, the new attache."

"Ah, sure. I mean, of course, ma'am."

"Please convey my condolences to Admiral Forsythe's wife. This is indeed a difficult day for her."

"Yes, ma'am."

She started to leave, but then stopped and turned. "He served the Federation well for many years. It is a pity that today's events affected him so greatly."

"That's what made him a good officer. He really cared."

T'Leya nodded. "You are quite correct. I fear he cared too much for his own good." Then she turned and walked away.


	3. The Good of the One

[Earth Year 2311: Starfleet Headquarters, San Francisco]

Admiral Ludmilla Derschenkova, head of Starfleet Intelligence, was frowning over the reports on her desk about the Tomed incident when the comm system beeped. With uncharacteristic anger, she swiped at the control. "What is it?"

Fortunately, her aide was imperturbable. "Ambassador T'Leya has arrived. You asked that I notify you immediately."

"Yes, of course. Is everything ready for her, Lieutenant?"

"As you specified. A special shuttle is at her disposal."

"Excellent. Send her in."

The Admiral was up and around her desk by the time the doors opened. T'Leya had not left Vulcan in over twenty years, although she communicated frequently by subspace communications. The person who walked in bore little resemblance to the woman the Admiral had met her senior year at the Academy. It was only because of years of rigid control that she did not gasp in astonishment.

T'Leya, the last surviving signatory of the original Federation Charter, T'Leya, for over a century the most influential voice on the Council floor, T'Leya, the driving force behind the elite unit that had come to be known as Section 31 - T'Leya was dying. No more than a glance was needed to confirm the rumors.

The once tall woman seemed to have shrunk, her shoulders hunched forward. She was thin to the brink of emaciation and her skin was as pale as alabaster with a green tint. The elegant stride was no more; this woman shuffled forward in painful progress. "Milla, thank you for seeing me."

The number of people who called the Admiral by her childhood nickname could be numbered on one hand. Derschenkova smiled at its use now; dying she may be, but T'Leya still knew how to establish seniority, however subtly.

Milla pulled a chair closer to her. "Ambassador, please do not tire yourself. Sit and be comfortable."

T'Leya sat without protest, and the Admiral knew then that she was very ill, indeed. "Ambassador, I am grieved that you felt the need to come all this way. We have a secure channel to Vulcan. We could have talked safely."

"Not for this. Not for what I intend. I am sorry to interrupt you in the midst of a crisis. The encounter with the Romulans must take priority for you. However, this is also of some importance." The body might be failing, but the eyes that fixed on Milla were bright and sharp. "You know that I am dying."

"Yes," Milla said calmly. She had learned long ago that T'Leya had no tolerance for prevarication or even delicacy when the security of the Federation was at stake. "You have Bendii syndrome."

"Yes." The elderly woman betrayed no emotion despite her condition. "It runs in my family. I am 200 years old and thought I had escaped it, but," she shrugged. "My keeper is in the lobby, trying to bolster my emotional control. I will not allow him to meld with me, so it is difficult for him."

Milla considered this for a moment. "Could you control the amount of access during a meld?"

"I could not. It is a symptom of the illness." She paused, and looked around the room. "There used to be a bar in this office. Have you kept it?"

"Yes, although I rarely use it." Milla was caught off guard.

"Have you any scotch? Single malt, I believe."

"Yes, I believe so. How would you like it?"

"Plain - no, that wasn't the word. Neat. I'll have it neat."

As she poured the drink, Milla looked at her without bothering to disguise her curiosity. "What brings you to Earth?"

"Two things. I wish to visit the grave of my friend Desmond Paris one more time. It is a sentimental gesture, I know, but that is the curse of this disease. I am at the mercy of my emotions."

When Milla turned, she saw the truth of this. Tears had filled T'Leya's eyes, although not enough to actually spill. She handed the old woman the glass and sat across from her. "It must be difficult for you."

"Difficult. Yes." T'Leya did not drink the scotch, but looked down at it. One tear finally swelled enough to trickle down her wasted cheek. "And that is the second reason I have come. I have devoted my life, Admiral, to the protection of the Federation. Now I must ask for you help. You must protect the Federation from me."

"I don't understand."

"I have never allowed another to meld with me. Do you understand that? Never. I refused a bondmate for that reason. There was always the risk that what I know about Section 31 would be revealed in the joining, and that was not acceptable."

"I knew you never married," Milla murmured. "I didn't realize that was the reason."

T'Leya smiled, a startling sight not only for its warmth but also for the way it transformed her. For an instant, Milla thought she could picture her as a young woman. "That was not the only reason. There was only one man who was a match for my spirit, and he, well, it was not possible for us to be together publicly. There was no one else that I wanted, so it was an easy sacrifice."

"Desmond Paris?" Milla asked softly, intrigued.

"My illness is progressing rapidly." T'Leya's smile disappeared as she ignored the question. "In a short time, the healers will insist on mind melds and I will lack the capacity to prevent it. My knowledge of Section 31 will be revealed. That must not happen."

"I see."

"I thought you would. I ask only this, Admiral. Let me finish my business today. After that, it does not matter, as long as it appears to be accidental or natural."

Milla waited a moment before answering. "As you wish."

T'Leya smiled again, and raised the glass. "Single malt scotch may be Earth's greatest contribution to the galaxy, along with Shakespeare and jazz." She took a sip, then coughed. Her smile turned rueful. "I'm sorry. I had forgotten how strong it is. I'm afraid I've wasted it."

"Not at all." Milla reached over, took the glass and raised it. "To the Federation, and to those who protect her from her enemies." She downed the rest in two swallows, feeling the fire scorch her throat. "It's a good thing we've got Shakespeare, too."

With difficulty, T'Leya struggled to her feet. "Thank you, Admiral. I have every confidence that you will continue in the tradition we have started."

"I won't let you down." Milla walked with her to the anteroom.

The young Vulcan aide jumped to his feet when he saw his charge, but T'Leya waved him off. "I'm fine, Storan. You may relax."

He stiffened at the suggestion that he was anxious, but said nothing.

Milla turned to her assistant. "Lt. Brennan, I believe we have arranged for a shuttle to be at the ambassador's disposal?"

"Yes, sir. If the ambassador pleases, she can find it at dock number Alpha-six at the hangar on the 98th floor."

"Thank you." T'Leya straightened as best she could, and faced Ludmilla. Her hand shook noticeably as she raised it in the traditional gesture. "Live long and prosper, Admiral."

Milla returned the salute. "Live long."

T'Leya smiled. "I have, Admiral. I have."

When the visitors were gone, Lt. Sarah Brennan looked up. "Any changes?"

"No, we'll proceed as planned. Carry on, Lieutenant."

Milla went back to her office and sat behind her desk. She needed to sift through the reports on the Tomed incident but instead she swiveled and looked outside.

It was a beautiful summer day, scarcely a cloud in the sky. Pity that a great woman would have to die today. The shuttle would have a fatal crash while en route to Ireland, crashing somewhere in the wastes of Greenland. It would be attributed to pilot error.

T'Leya would not get to visit Desmond Paris's grave, but Milla really couldn't allow that. The potential complications were too great. What if that eager young nurse, or keeper, or whatever the title was, somehow managed to save T'Leya's katra? Vulcans were notoriously closed-mouth about these things, but Milla had enough information to think that someone might learn about Section 31 from a preserved katra.

The woman was an unsung hero, Milla thought, and it was too bad that she couldn't have her final wish. But then, if anyone would appreciate the logic, it would be her. The good of the many outweighed the good of the one, even one such as T'Leya.

  
\- the end -


End file.
